


Remembering Arya Stark

by adversarya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle of Winterfell, F/M, Season/Series 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adversarya/pseuds/adversarya
Summary: She thought laying with him would feel like crossing a name off a list. She had a question and he would answer it and then it would be done. And it did. But also, it didn’t.(Or: Oh shit, feelings, I forgot about those, a tale in 3 acts by Arya Stark)





	Remembering Arya Stark

Afterwards, he fell asleep almost immediately. She found herself studying his face without meaning to, so she turned away. It was cold, and perhaps it would be best to gather her things, but his cloak was _right there_. Only a second after she wrapped herself the fabric did she consider everything it represented—or could, at the very least. But she refused to think of that, pushing the thought from her head as soon as it appeared. It was just convenient, and warm. And it smelled like him. And she smelled like them. They both did. Like sex and sweat but somehow it was different, being theirs, than it had been in the brothels of Braavos. She had found the smell there unsettling, but this she did not mind. Not at all. 

At first, she tried to close her eyes but quickly decided the futility of it, staring instead into the distance with thoughts spinning through her head.

She thought laying with him would feel like crossing a name off a list. She had a question and he would answer it and then it would be done. And it did. But also, it didn’t. Because for every question answered (yes, the feeling of his hands on her body was everything she had hoped it would be) three more arose, questions that she still had no answers for. Questions that began with things like “what if” and, most dangerously, “next time.”

Her thoughts were full of Gendry. Turning away from him had helped little in that regard. She thought of Gendry, and the battle approaching, and that they may never see another dawn. That she may not see another dawn. Or that she might but he might not.

She knew she had been lucky in her brushes with death. That it had passed her by when it could have sunk in its claws. But a part of her wondered if her fortune might be a coin with two sides. If she might be poison to those who came near her. The people that she cared most about always seemed to meet the same fate. Mycah and Jory and Syrio and Father and Yoren and Mother and Robb and Rickon, whose face she could hardly remember. And him, when the Red Woman took him. She counted him amongst her dead then, too.

She had stopped caring at all—or at least, she had tried. But then she came back to Westeros, to Winterfell, and lying here, with the slightest of aches between her thighs, next to a man who had first stirred up fluttering in her belly when she was a girl and he was just a boy. The boy who came back to her, who was taken away like a lamb to slaughter but survived. 

She had thought him dead once before and it had hurt. But every hurt was a lesson, and she survived. But she worried about having to do that again, with him. She had not really thought it through, when she approached him, what sharing so much of herself would mean. Perhaps she thought that she would just be able to walk away, afterward, that nothing would be different.

She realized now that she was wrong, but it was too late to go back. There was more between them now, something she could not quite identify that laid heavy in her chest, and she felt that she might even like the weight of it were it not so likely that they would die tomorrow. Before, she would have missed him, and mourned him, in a way she had practiced with so many others, and she would continue. But then she came to know the heat of his gaze on her body, the feel of his hands kneading her flesh. The sensation of his lips against hers, his tongue in her mouth, the friction as he moved inside her. Now she felt that if he died, there was something of her he would take with him, and she would never get it back. She never meant to do that. 

Some small part of her wondered if she should have sought out Podrick Payne. She had heard rumors about Brienne’s squire, and hard to believe though they were, her sources had been reliable ones. She knew he liked to watch her training, that she would have been able to convince him quick enough. That would have been safer. In retrospect, she was sure of it. Much safer. If only she had thought of it sooner.

 _Only you wouldn’t have_ , she thought, and knew it was the truth. No, she would never have gone to Podrick, no matter what the gossips said. Because even when she first glimpse that sort of wanting, she had wanted Gendry, and even after they were separated, it seemed she could not quite shake him. She had thought, in her travels with the Hound, in her training at the House of Black and White, she had stripped that part of herself entirely. But when she saw him riding into Winterfell, there it was again. Or maybe it was something of her that had gone with him, back when he was taken by the Red Witch, something the House of Black and White had not been able to touch, because it had been here in Westeros with him. And then he came back to her.

Arya knew she would have to be strong very soon. Strong as steel and quick as a snake. She knew that once the battle started, the briefest moment of weakness would mean her death. So she allowed herself a moment of weakness now, while she still could. She turned back to him. He had been a heavy sleeper when they were on the Kingsroad together, though so much about the both of them had changed since then there was no guarantee that still held true. Still, she took her chances and reached out to touch his face, tracing along his nose, his cheekbone, the line of his jaw. He slept on, so apparently in that regard, he had not changed at all, and Arya could not help but smile slightly. If he were a knight and not a baseborn blacksmith, he would be straight from out of one of Sansa's songs, strong and handsome and kind.  _No knight would ever want Arya Horseface_ , she remembers them taunting, remembers shouting at them how she wouldn't want a stupid knight anyway—and she didn't—but how their taunts hurt anyway. In the end, it was probably still true that no knight would ever want Arya Horseface, but her smith did, and that was all that mattered. 

The sleep that had evaded came over her suddenly, and the next thing she knew they were waking to the blaring of the war horns. 

As they hurried back into their clothes, Gendry asked her if she might reconsider going down to the crypts. The question stung like a slap to the face.

She had thought he understood—and replied as much, albeit with a few more choice words.

“I know, Arya,” he said. He never said her name before that night, not her true name. _Arry_ when she was just a child, a Lord’s daughter disguised as an orphan boy. Or _m’lady_. But now he said _Arya_ , and she did not want to think about how good it sounded on his lips. How it made her feel when he says it. “But I had to try.”

“Why?” she asked, though it is more a demand than anything. She was turned away from him, focused on lacing up her trousers and pretending like her hands weren’t shaking just a little.

“Because I want you safe.” _Nowhere is safe_ , she thought. “Because I love you.” 

She stopped and looked to him then.

“Never loved anyone before, really,” he continued. “So maybe I don’t know what I’m saying. But it feels true.”

Her tongue froze in her mouth. Even if it had not been, she suddenly found herself unable to gather a thought. Her eyes must have shown panic because he just shook his head slightly with a ghost of a smile. 

“It’s all right, if you don’t,” he said. “I just want you to know. Might not get another chance, and all.” He tried to say it nonchalantly. It didn’t really work. 

“I can’t—” she began, but even in her mind it was a sentence with no endings—or perhaps too many, she can’t quite tell—but in the end, it doesn’t matter, because the horn began to sound, two blasts, and there was no more time for talking. 

She grabbed him by the front of his jerkin and pulled him in for one last kiss, hoping he might understand some of the things she could not find the words to say—or, in all honesty, even fully comprehend herself yet. 

The kiss was clumsy. He stumbled forward, their teeth clacking together and their noses colliding, but he matched her enthusiasm. _He loved her_. Gendry had never lied to her. Even when he refused to go with her to Riverrun, refused _her_ , and her heart had split in two worse than anything she had felt since her father was forced to his knees on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, he had never broken her trust. In those days she would have given anything to see him look at her the way he did now. The reality of it was more than anything she had ever dreamed. And there was every chance that soon dreams would be all she had left of it. Of him. 

“Don’t die,” she demanded. “Not today.” _Not ever_ , she thought, but held her tongue because that would have been a silly thing to say, and she was no fool.

“As my lady commands,” he said, and, in spite of everything, warmth flooded her heart and she knew she was lost.

 

 

 

 

Somehow, they won. Winterfell still stood. Battered, _heavily_ battered. But the broken things could be fixed. Because the dawn had come and all the dead lay down once more. _They had done it._ Well, they and those last-minute reinforcements that had come in from who-knows-where, with their strange red armor and oddly-shaped masks. (Arya knew no such gifts came at no cost, but that was a problem for later.)

In an instant, all the corpses had fallen to the ground and their masters shattered to so many little pieces, and she knew they must have done it. Jon or the Dragon Queen or hells, even Bran, with those strange new powers of his—she did not know, not yet, she just knew that all at once, it was over. And she immediately turned to look for him. For Gendry.

At first, they had fought together, side by side, back to back, and even though their strategies could not be more opposite—her precision, his brute force—they fight well together. _Dancing_ , she thinks, _not quite water dancing or the dance of Westerosi knights, but something in between_ —and then another corpse is upon her, and all those thoughts disappeared. _Not today_ was the only thought she had, as the corpses came in a never-ending wave. And then, all of a sudden, it was one of _them_ in front of her, pale as ice with those eerie blue eyes. A far more fearsome foe than any of those walking corpses that fought for him. Quicker, stronger, smarter. The fight had forced her to move, and by the time she finally drove the dragonglass end of her spear into her opponent’s chest, Gendry was nowhere to be seen.

In those moments few and far between where there was a heartbeat between attacks, a second with no opponent in striking distance, she would scan the chaos for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

 _The south gate_ , she thought, not quite running, but not quite walking either. He had made somewhat unlikely friends with the Unsullied commander, she knew, borne of a mutual respect for the artistry of weapons. The Unsullied were guarding the south gate, he would have headed there. She would find him there. She had to find him.

And then she felt her heart skip a beat. 

There was a man lying on the ground, a dead man—a dead man with dark hair, an ax beside him. Someone stood over the corpse, head bowed—who it was she did not care to know. Only one thing mattered. 

She did not remember deciding to run; by the time she realized what she was looking at, she was already running. _He didn’t know_ , she thought. _I thought it would be easier if I didn’t tell him, but it’s not._ To have _those_ words lodged in her throat, left unsaid with him gone… that, she realized, was worst of all.

Only the dead man wasn’t him. She could tell once she got a bit closer—the hair was too long, more like what his had been when they were younger. Her knees nearly buckled in relief.

But she did recognize the dead man. It was Podrick Payne, and Ser Brienne who stood beside the body.

“He was a good lad,” Brienne said, her voice choked with tears.

"He was," Arya said solemnly, quickly moving on.  

 _It wasn’t him_. Yet her heart still felt brittle. All around her there were corpses—so many dead. How could she dare to hope that both of them would see another spring, to even see another dawn? How could she— 

And then she saw Gendry in the distance. He was favoring his left leg and even at a distance, she noticed he seemed to have a wound to his side, but he was alive. And searching, she could tell, searching the sea of faces—searching for her, she knew. He spotted her as she ran towards him. The look on his face—relief, utter exhaustion, other things she still got nervous to name—mirrored everything in her heart. He nearly stumbled over from the force with which she barreled into him.

Arya buried her face in the crook of his neck, luxuriated in the feel of his arms as he held her tight, her own limbs clung around him just as fiercely. The world around them was loud, but all she could hear was his voice whispering her name with all the reverence of a prayer. _Arya, Arya, Arya_.

She needed to see his face when she told him, so she pulled back just enough to be able to look him in the eyes.   

“I love you,” she said. It was as terrifying as she feared and yet somehow as easy as breathing. 

Gendry looked at her in shock. In his eyes, Arya saw a flash of the boy he must have once been, long before they met, alone in the world and uncared for. A fierce protectiveness welled up inside her as she realized he had never heard those words directed at him before, a deep-seated ache from a loveless childhood. She wanted to make it better. She did not know how—she had spent far too many years focused on killing people to have any clue of how to fix them—but she figured kissing him would be a good start, and so she did.

 

 

 

 

Davos Seaworth was not sure how he had survived another battle, but he had. The corpses of better fighters—of younger, stronger men—littered the ground and there he was, still breathing and searching for any wounded survivors that might be hidden amongst the bodies. It was depressing work, more depressing than the fighting had been now that the looming threat of death was gone, leaving just the aftermath in the cold morning light. All the spilt blood, the lives ended so soon.

Jon Snow had slain his foe, but the Warden of the North did not look especially triumphant as they walked through what remained of Winterfell. He looked ragged, just about as tired as Davos had ever seen a man look still standing. _But that wouldn’t make for much of a song_ , the smuggler thought. 

“Someone will need to check the battlements as well,” Jon said. 

A figure in the distance caught Davos’s eye and lightened his heavy heart just the smallest bit. _So he made it then_ , Davos thought, looking at the young smith he had taken under his wing.  

The man was clearly looking for something, or more likely someone, Davos figured, though he had no idea who it could be—from what he understood the lad had worked through all the hours of the day and night in the forge the moment he arrived at Winterfell. His confusion only deepened as the smith clearly spotted whoever he was looking for, a besotted look coming over his face.

“Arya,” Jon said, his voice filled with relief as a smile broke out across his face. Davos followed Jon’s gaze and saw the girl running towards them. 

Only she wasn’t, he realized after a moment. She wasn’t running towards her brother, she was running toward—Davos’s eyebrows nearly reached his receding hairline as she leaped up, throwing her arms around the smith, who returned the embrace just as tightly.

 Jon’s jaw dropped to the floor.

“Did you know?” Jon asked, a hint of accusation in his voice.

“No, my lord, I did not,” Davos said, though he fully intending on giving the smith an earful next opportunity he had a chance. _I really could have used a warning there, lad_.

The Stark girl pulled away just enough to look into the smith’s eyes. Davos was too far away to hear what she said, but a moment later, she reached up on her tip-toes and kissed him, which communicated a message quite clearly.

Next to him, Jon looked like he was either about to charge at Gendry or keel over.

“My lord,” Davos said, but Jon gave no response, still dazed. “Jon!" 

The warden of the North finally turned to Davos. “Yes, right.”

He would deal with this new development later. Much later.

**Author's Note:**

> (I couldn't *not* include Jon's reaction.)
> 
> We didn't just get Arya/Gendry sex, y'all. We got the *episode 69* sex. Somebody had to get it—there was just no way the writers were going to miss that opportunity—and it was our ship that got it. Like, woah. We made it, fam.
> 
> Also, I've seen a lot of really bad takes out there on the interwebs, so if anyone wants to support a fellow shipper doing the good work, here's one good take: https://filmschoolrejects.com/game-of-thrones-most-important-sex-scene-ever/
> 
> There may or may not be a second part to this. I've got some ideas and stuff but if I don't get them down before this version of events gets shot to hell on Sunday, it's probably not going to happen, tbh.


End file.
